Fencing Lessons

for a client

 

 

Just  off Critz Lane the posts have been in the ground

for months now, maybe twenty of them,

evenly spaced, tops level,

awaiting the horizontal planks that will

make them a fence.

 

Rebecca insists that her heart is open

to love, but I see the posts

jammed into her soil, historical

markers without words,  high reaching tombs

without names or dates, wooden

spikes driven into her own heart

but still that is not the death of her.

 

Hers will be one of suffocation when

love again approaches her property,

as she will rush to her posts and

nail into place the horizontal slats

that will fortress her heart and

fence in its breath.

 

--rLp--